Affections of a King
by PrizJefra
Summary: In which goldsick!Thorin finds you alone in the Great Hall of the mountain and makes his feelings towards you very, very clear. Bonus for a caught, voyeuristic Fili (that naughty boy.)


It was funny, how gold could lose its charm so fast. When you first laid your eyes on the treasures within the Lonely Mountain you had been overwhelmed, even breathless (much to the amusement of the Company.) You had only seen gold once before when your great-great uncle had done a magic trick with a gold coin a long time ago. And so naturally your encounter with the oceans of precious gems and jewels sprawled at your feet had been…heavenly.

Now you gaze at the crystal headpiece in your hands with a vague sense of disgust. It is beautiful and had most likely adorned the head of an Elvish Prince but no matter how much you try to channel your excitement from the first few days in the mountain the headpiece remains just so: another pretty thing. One amongst billions.

You sigh, toss it away, and bury your head in your arms as it clanks, clatters, and sets small mountains of gold rolling. Who would care about it now? They were all off searching for the Arkenstone in the Eastern Corridor. And Bilbo? Well, poor Bilbo…

"That crown belonged to the daughter of an Elvish Prince in the west. She and her court often paid homage to my father." Your heart racing, you quickly stand up and turn to face Thorin Oakensheild with what you hope is a look of courageous defiance. He stands with his hands held limp behind his back, half of his face swathed in shadows. Obscured thus, you can still make out the outline of his brow. What you read there is at odds with the lightness of his words. He dips his chin, his unblinking eyes never leaving your face. "Some say that she was fond of him."

"You would have done the same, I'm sure. Throw the headpiece, I mean." You say mildly. The corners of his lips lift into a small smile and, emboldened, you go on. "After all, what's it worth, the affection of elves?"

He is silent. Eyes lowered to the gold around your feet, he slowly descends the stone staircase. Every muffled footstep echoes loudly, almost blasphemously, through the silent hall and you wonder why the others aren't alerted by the sound. Now more than ever you wish for the company of the Company – even your poor flustered uncle would do. Never before had you been alone with the Dwarven king. And why would you? It was Bilbo's job to be the outgoing and curious one. You were just there to keep his silly little self safe. You had seen Thorin staring at you that one evening, a very long time ago. It had been right after you had informed Gandalf that you were joining the Company on their adventure whether he liked it or not. Thorin's gaze had been direct, unapologetic, and back then you had felt its chill travel through your veins and make your hands shake. Now, with him standing only a few inches away, his breath hot on your neck, you feel the same sense of insecurity and (could it be?) excitement. You sigh and can't help but notice the way that his hair flutters with your breath.

"Ah…ah!" you say awkwardly. You can not take it anymore. You stutter out a frightened apology, drop your gaze, and take a step back. Hurriedly, you try to figure out something to say – anything to break the silence and interrupt his suddenly focused gaze. Never before had the cloth covering your breasts felt so thin! "Where…where is Bilbo? Where is my Uncle? I need to speak with him." Your feet begin to carry you backwards of their own clumsy accord.

"He is probably off in some corner of the mountain, scheming and plotting against me."

"Thorin!" You shout before slipping on a pile of gold. He reaches down without hesitation and yanks you up. You quickly pull your arm free and begin to walk backwards, your steps hurried and uncertain. But he's quick to match your pace, his large boots obliterating the indents made in the gold by your feet. "How dare you?" You say, "This isn't like you!"

"Oh?"

The single utterance is amplified by the grandeur of the chamber. It bounces from every stone and grows louder, fuller, by the air that carries it around you. Repercussions be damned, you turn and begin to run through the gold. It was a threatening sound, threatening and confident. But there is nowhere to go. Every entranceway that you can see houses a dreadful darkness. You trip, swing your arms around, and fall flat on your stomach. Before you can cry out his arms wrap around you and he pulls you in close. His grip is tight – too tight – and the most that you can do is huff in pain. You begin to sweat.

"Thorin, please…"

"What would you know about me, _guardian_ from Bag-End? Who are you to tell me that I have changed?"

"A worried friend, that's all. Please, really, I meant no offense." His chest makes a funny motion against your back as he gives a bitter laugh. There's a roaring sound in your ears, like an ocean or a thousand men shouting at once. And yet, strangely, you are not afraid. You are…

"Hmph. Well, worried friend, tell me: what's it worth, the affection of a dwarven king?"

You give an audible exhale and for a moment everything is silent, everything is still save for the beating of your heart. And that's when you notice a cool trickle of sweat slipping down your neck. Slowly, slowly it travels and you come to the sudden realization that he has noticed it to. You hold your breath and close your eyes as it continues to slip across your skin at an infuriatingly slow pace. Suddenly, as it melts into your shirt, he pulls you painfully close and presses his nose against your neck. His beard tickles your back as he inhales your scent. His hands slip beneath your tunic and find your breasts. Your nipples harden beneath his touch and you find, to your surprise, that you are impatient for more.

He turns you around to face him. Your glances meet for a second before you find yourself on your hands and knees. Against all semblances of self-control you moan and rest your cheek against your arms as he makes quick work of your leggings, cloak, and undergarments. Suddenly, his tongue is _there_, trailing patters along your thighs and slithering, darting along sensitive flesh. You are surprised by his expertise and technique in such a moment and the most that you can do is mutter, "O, my king." He straightens up with a throaty chuckle and moves between teasing you and pleasing you with the tip of his thumb, his forefinger, his ring finger, until you lose track of which fingers he has inside of you, lost in the unexpected pleasure of it all.

"Are you satisfied?" He asks. Your position is awkward as his fingers are still inside of you but nonetheless you muster enough dignity to lift your head from your arms and say no.

Never before had the immense hall seemed so silent when he pulls back. You stare into the abyss ahead, breathing heavily, as you try to prepare yourself for what is to come. Thorin says nothing and you begin to fear that he is no longer interested in you until the faint sound of metal clinking behind you finds your ears. Suddenly you gasp his name as he guides himself into you. The sound of your voice collides with his as he hunches over you and grabs your hips. Without waiting for permission you begin to rock against him, enjoying every full inch of what he has to offer. He lets you and for a moment he lifts his hands away from your hips, simply letting you find your own rhythm. Something compels you to look over your shoulder and when you do you are surprised to find him struggling to hide the look of pure bliss on his face. He catches you and holds your eyes for a second. Then, with only the slightest of smiles, he presses his hand against the nape of your neck and gently pushes you down again. His hands find their way back to your hips and he takes control of you. Every thrust is laced with pleasure and hinted of pain but you love it. The hall begins to echo with the sound of your barely concealed cries.

At one point you look up and notice a figure watching you from the top of the stairs. It takes a moment, but through the blurry, rocking world your eyes discern the golden hair of Fili and his pale eyes staring at you in horror. You can not help yourself. You smile, baring all of your teeth, and hold his gaze as his uncles thrusts quicken within you. Fili's mouth falls open and for a reason you cannot explain you are intent on holding his gaze when Thorin hits a particularly sensitive spot. You arch your back and cry out as simultaneously he falls against you, his lips trailing a line of a strained and foreign dialogue against the side of your neck. You both fall, panting: you, with your body laid out flat atop the gold and him with chest rising and falling against your back. Though slow in coming, your strength returns and with a small, mirthless laugh your readjusts yourself on shaking arms.

"O, my king," you say again, just to please him. He does not respond. Instead, you find that his entire countenance is grim when you turn to look at him again. Without a word he readjusts his pants and straightens his cloak.

"Time has been lost," is all that he says as his eyes move restlessly about the hall, "we must continue searching for the Arkenstone."

"Thorin…"

"We must keep looking."

"Thorin!"

But he pays you no heed as he walks away, his hands held proudly behind his back once again. Tears well up in your eyes but you refuse to let yourself cry. Instead, you fixate on a particularly heavy goblet nearby and are considering tossing it his way, just so that he would understand your pain when suddenly he calls your name in a soft voice. You look up at him, surprised by the sound. His back is still turned to you and his gaze his lowered, but you can see the light of his silver eyes shining with honesty as he gazes over his shoulder.

"I want to see again tonight," he whispers, "and for many more nights to come. And when all is said and done, I hope to see you in my every waking day, too."

"We will see," you say mildly, though your heart had become a wild beast in your chest. He dips his chin in a sign of respect and continues to walk away, never once looking back.

Listlessly you wander, up the stairs and around the upper levels of the hall, your mind restless and your heart heavy. Beneath a crumbling stairway that opens out into a new hall you run into Fili sifting through the gold. He looks up at you anxiously and with concern unspoken.

"I did not…"

"What is it worth," you say to him with a smile, "the affections of a dwarven king? Everything."

#

That night you wake to the sound of water tinkling in your ear. With weary hands you feel around your head and find a circle of crystals resting there. It was the same headpiece that you had found earlier. There is a note pinned to your sleeve. It reads, in a strong and steady scrawl:

_Though I cannot attest to the honor of Elves, I can attest to their appreciation of fine things and the worth of their craft. This crown was worn by an Elven princess, known far and wide for her majesty. By your leave, it shall find its rightful home on your head, as you have found a home in my heart._

_Thorin_


End file.
